


Something Potent

by everythingisgreenandsubmarine



Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: AU, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Arguing, Delusions, Denial, Established Relationship, M/M, Not So Short & Not So Sweet, Sorrow, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27955796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingisgreenandsubmarine/pseuds/everythingisgreenandsubmarine
Summary: Roger comes home to the end of his world.
Relationships: David Gilmour/Roger Waters
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Something Potent

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know I have unfinished business on this site, but this idea ruled my brain for about two days, so I decided to write it all down. It started as little snippets of a scenario–like little, moving frames of a film strip unfolding in my head–so it begins with a little bit of a jerk (titled it as 'Scenario Stuck In My Head' in my docs), and I apologize in advance for that. It's still fully comprehensible though. But I will say it revolves around a rather sensitive subject that might trigger a few folks, so I warn you now before you delve into uncharted waters. Anyway, I hope this is okay.

The suspecting cocked eyebrow contorting his forehead swells into a full-blown frown as the car in the driveway grows larger with every step he takes, its black body glistening in the lenient sun and looking absolutely untouched. A piffling metallic creak from the front gate and he crosses the small front yard in haste, hoping that his arrival will not be met with anything staggering. Upon walking through the cream-colored front door that led to instant comfort, and being deprived of the ability to close it behind him because of the hefty groceries in the crooks of his arms–using instead a steady foot–he is engulfed in nearly dead silence, everything close to still, but can hear minuscule sounds coming from somewhere down the hall, most likely the kitchen. Once more, this strikes him as odd since he is meant to spend his breathing spell alone until David comes home from work well after the evening, but it’s only ten-thirty in the morning. 

He approaches the hallway with quiet footsteps, but the out of time rustling of kraft paper in his arms defeats the purpose of stealth. When he reaches the doorway of the kitchen, he is taken by surprise to see a very nonchalant David leaning by the sink, broad arm pouring a golden brown inebriant into a lowball glass. The smell of it penetrates Roger’s nostrils the instant he catches sight of it, and a million fuzzy flashes of bad nights involving it flit through his mind. 

**  
  
**

“Hey, you,” Roger greets, coming around to the counter across the sink, “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” he asks with a densely-veiled edge to his tone as two percent milk is procured from one of the bags. 

“Yeah, erm…” David screws the cap back on the bottle, and brings the glass to his lips for a sip, “I called off.” 

Roger pretends to be surprised, “Oh? Why’s that?” 

**  
  
**

He continues to drain one of the bags of its contents and occupies himself with putting some things inside the fridge, but his mind is elsewhere. 

**  
  
**

“The car broke down, so…” 

**  
  
**

Another sip and Roger stops briefly to thoroughly drink in the sight of him, only to recognize that David has not made eye contact in all the time they’ve been in the same space.

**  
  
**

“Oh, you mean the one out there in the driveway?” he challenges in a composed inflection, and distantly gestures down the hall, out the front door. 

**  
  
**

This time, his heart begins to leap into his throat, second by apprehensive second, when David finally looks up and meets his blank stare. Only until Roger breaks their momentary mutual gaze to continue putting things away does David keep his eyes on him. 

**  
  
**

“Uh-huh,” David answers, satiating his thirst with yet another sip. 

“If it broke down…” Roger starts, now trying to choose his words wisely, “...Then wouldn’t it be best to take it to an auto repair shop?” 

Again, David averts his eyes, “I did. I made a call earlier. Fixed it. It was the battery, it needed to be changed.” 

“Oh,” Roger lamely replies, but can’t help but think that David’s absence from work still seems groundless. 

**  
  
**

A moment of silence ensues as Roger stores away some of the other purchased goodies into the wooden cabinets. But the knowing silence quickly grows unbearable, and Roger can’t refrain from broaching the inevitable. 

**  
  
**

“You know,” he stops again, “It’s only been three hours. You can still go to work.” 

David looks at him, “Yeah, but...I mean, I already called off. I don’t want my boss to think I’m going back and forth. Plus, he already found someone to cover for me.” 

“But...wouldn’t you feel better being the bigger person and sending your fill-in home, even though it’ll seem a hassle?” 

“So you also believe it’ll be a hassle.” 

**  
  
**

At this point, Roger feels strongly the need to grab his drink and let the sink’s drain guzzle it down out of spite. The whole bottle actually. In fact, every single bottle residing within their home. 

**  
  
**

“I just think it doesn’t make sense,” Roger replies. 

“What are you implying, then?” 

Roger resumes his task with a sigh, “I don’t want to fight, okay?”

“Neither do I, but it seems you have a big, fat penchant for it,” he says matter-of-factly with a subsequent swig. 

_Pretend that wasn’t just said._ “You don’t hear me raising my voice, do you?” 

“But your words. You _want_ me to react rashly to them.” 

**  
  
**

Roger lets his acidic utterances hang in the air because no matter what steps he takes, David will always be able to see through him. He allows his blood to boil, allows his pink ears to invisibly steam, allows the tight feeling in his chest to get a smothering grip on him as he takes a few minutes to finish putting things in their place. While he does, David refills his glass and leaves things unsaid about Roger’s stiff upper lip. 

By the time Roger is done, he turns towards David. He hesitates, knowing his impending words will unleash something unpleasant.

**  
  
**

“Please...Don’t tell me you’d rather stay home and get plastered than go to work to be able to pay rent. Among other important bills and essentials, I’ll remind you.” 

“And there it is. I knew you were going to say that.” 

“Then why do what you did? If you cared at all about us, you’d–”

“No, no, I don’t want to hear it. You _always_ do this, you always bring up this lack of solicitude you think you see in me.” 

“Dave, this isn’t the first time you’ve done this. In fact, I could swear to you that you’ve missed work more than five times this past month. It surprises me that you haven’t gotten fired yet.”

“And you’d love to see that, wouldn’t you? Just to be given the satisfaction of saying _I told you so_.”

“You know what I’d love, David? I’d love to stop hearing all these feeble excuses of yours to stay home and drink yourself into a stupor. It’s not even noon yet and you’re probably on your third brandy.” 

“Don’t blame it on this,” David jerks his drink slightly, “It’s got nothing to do with–” 

“It’s got _everything_ to do with what’s been going on,” Roger spits back, no longer able to control his words, “Do you think I’m stupid? Last week, I found a fucking Smirnoff in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. You’re honestly saying that if you were taking a shit, you’d get sloshed on the toilet?” 

“I know nothing about–“ 

“Bullshit...Let me ask you this,” Roger steps closer, “When I go to work–which lately has been relentless if you even care to know, how am I supposed to trust that you’ll fulfill your adult duties? When even accomplishing the most simplest thing seems out of your reach."

David swallows the hurtful knot in his throat, intently looking at Roger, “...You’re just trying to upset me.” 

“No. I’m giving you a wake-up call.” 

“I don’t _need_ one,” he pathetically retaliates. 

**  
  
**

Roger brings his body within reach, his proximity intimate. His scrutinizing, green orbs now finally notice the slight puffiness of the other’s face, which he knows is a telltale sign of–

**  
  
**

“What?” 

“You smell like this all the time now,” Roger softly says, “You have no idea why that would make me sad?” 

David calmly places his drink down, “I don’t.” 

**  
  
**

Roger wants to dig his nails into his scalp and yank his hair out, and along the way, do the same to David over the deliberate unwillingness on his part to see the bigger picture. Why can’t he see how much Roger cares? 

**  
  
**

“...You...have a problem–“ 

“–Don’t even start. I don’t have–“

“–And you need to get help–“

“–A problem. I don't need any bloody help–“

“–And I’m telling you this because I love you and _need_ you to walk the earth with me–“ 

“–I don’t believe it–“

“–Until the end of our days. But you have to admit it to yourself first.”

“I don’t have to do _anything_.” 

“Do it for _me_ , then _._ I’ve been letting it slide every day for months, and I’m getting sick of it. You’re a fucking alcoholic and you need help.” 

“Don’t call me that.”

“What else should I call you, then? An addict? Fiend?” 

**  
  
**

David attempts to escape this intense confrontation, the weight of it too much to bear, but Roger is quick in grabbing his arm and pulling him back. 

**  
  
**

“Get your hand off me.” 

“Then don’t try running away. This is serious, Dave. Do you think I’m joking? This isn’t a fun little game; this is your fucking _life_ we’re talking about. Do you know what happens to a person when they can’t quit? Some of their liver cells die each time they drink, until eventually, over the years, the liver loses its power to regenerate, then the person gets cirrhosis and dies. Is that what you want for yourself?” 

**  
  
**

David listens to every word, but an unfamiliar abundance of pride obstructs him from taking them into consideration. He somehow manages to break free from Roger’s grasp and moves to the other side of the counter, where he’s less subject to a sudden tackle. 

**  
  
**

“You’re being ridiculous. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“That’s the most absurd–” 

“No, no, this is nonsense. You just want to get rid of me. Admit it.” 

“Get rid of...? How could you even say that? I care more about you than myself.” 

“Stop,” David firmly puts up a hand to stop Roger from further approaching, “You come any closer and I’ll turn right around and leave. I swear.” 

Roger acquiesces for a moment, more than a few inches between them, “You’re being delusional, Dave. I’m trying to save you from yourself. Why can’t you see that?” 

“Stop talking to me like that,” David takes a step back as he sees Roger inch closer. 

“Then stop being irrational. This isn’t about riddance. This is about love. This is about your own fucking benefit. This is about the malevolence of relying on substances for your happiness.” 

“Fucking stop. You’re putting all these words together just to sound guileless, but it’s all nonsense. I told you I don’t have a problem, and if you can’t get that through your head, then I don’t see the purpose of my being here.” 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means I have no qualms about walking away...If I have to.” 

**  
  
**

Tinges of nausea creep into Roger’s stomach, and he can’t remember the last time his heart thrashed against his chest like a caged animal, as it is doing now. A blanket of urgency overlays his being, a futile scramble for a solution, and the litany of _pleasedontpleasedontpleasedont_ in his head is getting deafening. 

**  
  
**

“...You’re lying.” 

**  
  
**

Everything is still for a few seconds as David stifles a retort, his eyes boring into Roger’s as a way to challenge what was just said. The distance between them becomes impossible to traverse that Roger can actually feel David slipping from his fingers. The thought terrifies him so much, his hairs stand on end at even the mere abstraction of sharing nothing, of becoming a lonely body, of waking up to the deprivation of warmth and light, of losing the whispered sweet-nothings at night, of forgetting how the entanglement of skin feels, of being bereft of the voice, touch, taste, and heart that he desperately believes exist for him and him only. 

He wants to see if he’s right, wants to see if his world will come crashing down today into little bits and pieces but frantically hoping he’s proven the opposite, so he steps closer to David, using not his hands but his eyes to make him stay. But it only takes that step, that hardihood to test the waters, for David to turn around on his heels and rush down the hall. The color drains from Roger’s face, and he blinks twice in rapid succession as he doesn’t recognize, only for a split, dumbstruck second, just what he should do. But like a sudden blow across the face, he finally reacts and tries not to let that mass of honey brown hair out of sight. 

**  
  
**

He follows suit, already finding David at the front door and shakily gathering the car keys and random sweater from the wall-mounted coat rack, “David, where are you going? David–” 

**  
  
**

David opens the door, absentmindedly pushing it closed behind him but Roger swings it right back open, carelessly leaving it that way as he follows David to the car, uselessly calling his name over and over. In the blink of an eye, David has shrugged on his sweater and ignores the tall man behind him as he sticks the key into the car door’s entry lock. A bony hand reaches out to his shoulder and tries to turn him around, but David doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even think about what he’s doing, doesn’t absorb what Roger is saying behind him and what he could mean. His brain is in the wrong gear as he only hears the witty dialogue of Monty Python on the small television in his favorite pub, only feels the discomfort of the bar stools, only sees the fizzing of the pint of Guinness before him, only tastes the saltiness of the variety of nuts in the bowl at the bar counter. Roger’s words are mere background noise as he gets into the car, wondering if he’ll have enough cash to get him through the day, through the next day, and the day after that until...who knows? But frantic knocks on the window next to him fleetingly snap him back to reality, and he looks over. Roger’s lips move with every muffled word, pleading him to get out of the car so they could talk things out, his habitually bashful orbs now wide in consternation, ice melted and bursting onto his eyebags and down his cheeks as he feels blatantly exposed. A small part of David, buried deeply, knows he should probably stay and passively listen to Roger’s tirades, but something _else_ is calling his name. Something puissant and possessive and wonderfully perilous, it simply cannot be ignored... _But...shouldn’t I stay? Perhaps kiss Roger’s distress into oblivion and tell him to stop worrying?_ _I could...Then he...And then..._ The abrupt purr of the engine cuts into his deferred musings, and the knocks on his window grow frenetic. 

As David pulls out of the driveway, vaguely reminding himself to have steady hands because of the liquid courage already in his system, Roger pathetically endeavors to follow, banging at the car’s reversing body, but a moving vehicle is far superior to a human, and Roger’s begs work to no avail. 

At the sight of the car departing with the stupid and overwhelmingly ethereal person in it, Roger feels as though any minute, his knees will give out and he will fall into a messy heap on the hard ground. They feel like jelly and his arms feel frail and _he_ feels utterly powerless. He heavily swallows the bitter bile creeping up into his throat and tries to assuage his panic-stricken heart, wanting to rip it out and hand it over to David and say, “See what you’ve done to me?” And indeed, he plummets to the ground in one fluid movement, not caring at all if someone walks by and sees him, or if someone happened to look out their window in the exact moment of his weakness. His hot tears fall consecutively and stain the bleached cement, spreading into dark, tiny, soft-edged circles. With blurry vision, he looks down at his quivering hands, noticing how abnormally pale they are, every serpentine vein more conspicuous than ever. He wonders if it was a mistake that he used words instead, wonders that maybe it would’ve been more effective if he’d just reached out and embraced David to keep him from leaving. 

_Maybe I should’ve just let him have his brandies. Could’ve even shared one with him...Could’ve let my pretense convey that his ways are excusable._

He doesn’t know how long he’s there on the ground. Time doesn’t seem real as he wallows in the small comfort granted to him from pretending he doesn’t exist at this very moment. He doesn’t know anything. In fact, everything he thought he knew has dissipated within the breeze. All he’s mindful of is that his neighborhood appears to be less lonely, every nook and cranny of it somewhat brightened by the sun. More people are walking down the street, some of them craning their necks at the weird man sitting so motionless on his driveway, but Roger still doesn’t care. He contemplates waiting around on his porch until David comes back, whenever he does. If he ever does. But he, no matter how excruciating it feels to think this way, has a strong feeling–too strong to disregard–that David won’t come back any time soon, that he’ll stay as far away as possible until he grows tired from being on a bender. Or until he runs out of money. And Roger hopes it’s neither the former nor the latter, but hopes David comes home because he has sunk to his rock bottom. Then, he’ll know that the grip his insatiable craving had on his neck has loosened. 

With still wobbly legs, Roger gathers himself from the ground, doesn’t bother to dust himself off, and reluctantly makes his way to the porch. The door is still wide open, indicative of the agonizing incident that took place not so long ago. Or maybe a while ago. Roger’s not completely sure. 

He finds that he doesn’t want to go inside, doesn’t want to see or smell the things that will surely make him think of David. Like his mug, his record collection, his favorite flowers as the centerpiece on the dining table, his side of the bed, the lavender-scented soap he uses, his hairbrush...Christ, everything. He dreads being inside such emptiness, such unbearable silence. Who will he drink tea with? Who will watch stupid television shows with him? Who will sing to him? A lump starts to form in his throat again, his eyes burning with tears that are dying to come out once more, but he catches himself before he succumbs to torment. A hand comes up to brush over his face. He knows he needs to keep it together, for himself, for David. All there is to do now is wait, and although it sounds impossible, Roger knows patience will play a significant role. He will allow himself to worry, but can’t let it rule his being. He will allow himself to love and hate from afar, but can’t let it distract him. 

And with that, he goes inside. 

**  
  
  
  
  
  
**


End file.
